


Bait and Switch

by Sibilant



Category: Dark Knight Rises (2012)
Genre: Barsad and John friendship, Bromance, Community: tdkr_kinkmeme, Crack, Gen, Humor, Identity Swap, M/M, Post-Movie(s), Substitution
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-06
Updated: 2013-04-06
Packaged: 2017-12-07 15:10:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/749933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sibilant/pseuds/Sibilant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blake is a too-trusting fool who puts himself out of commission. But Bane is always ready with a back up plan, and Barsad is his ever-loyal, long-suffering follower (or: The Misadventures of Barsad-wing, Defender of Gotham). Sheer, unadulterated crack.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted [here](http://tdkr-kink.livejournal.com/3076.html?thread=2559492#t2559492) on the TDKR Kink Meme.

Blake is improving.

His form is steadily moving away from his self-taught street brawling – slapdash and unnecessarily protracted – into something sleeker, more disciplined, his sudden bursts of viciousness all the more effective for his control. Barsad watches with a critical eye as Blake uses the confined space of the brownstone rooftop to his advantage, eluding the would-be thief’s wild swings before darting in to deliver efficient strikes to the man’s face, abdomen and groin.

It’s over in less than a minute. The man crumples onto the rooftop.

Blake _is_ improving.

But he is still too willing to take things at face value.

His opponent cowers, seemingly protecting his belly. But when Blake nears – already lowering his guard as he goes to secure the man’s wrists; stupid, _foolish_ – the man uncoils like a striking mamba. The momentum gives extra force to the backhand swing of his hitherto concealed blackjack.

Even from his rooftop perch across the street, Barsad hears the crunch of bone and Blake’s strangled, agonised yell. He watches as Blake reels away and recovers; lashes out with a roundhouse kick that would fell the man, were it not for the fact that he is off-balance from cradling his arm to his chest. Blake staggers and his opponent tosses the blackjack aside in favour of pulling out a switchblade. He swipes wildly at Blake, catches him cleanly in a diagonal slash across his abdomen and his already injured arm.

Blake totters backward, clearly close to passing out from pain and nausea, and his assailant advances on him again.

Barsad sighs and sights carefully in his scope.

He lines up his shot and fires.

 

\---

 

“Did you kill him?”

 _Of course_ that’s the first thing Blake says when he comes to - after Barsad had hauled him down the fire escape of the brownstone, strapped him into the passenger seat of the tumbler, injected him with morphine, driven him to the lair beneath the Wayne Foundation orphanage, and patched him up. Would a ‘thank you’ be so difficult to insert before the accusations?

Barsad resists the urge to roll his eyes and— wait. Why resist? He rolls his eyes at Blake. “I shot him through the shoulder, brave hero,” he says, making sure his voice is dry as dust. “He will live to commit attempted robbery again, although not for a month, at least.” Barsad nods to himself, satisfied. It was a good shot.

Blake’s face is agonised, although Barsad’s sure it isn’t from pain. The morphine should still be in his system. “Did you at least make sure he wasn’t going to bleed out? Or call 911?”

“… Why?”

“ _Why?_ Oh for God’s— _Barsad!_ ”

“ _What?_ ” Barsad snaps, peevish. “It is not as though I shot him through the _throat_. And _I could have._ ”

Blake slumps back onto the pillows.

 

\---

 

Bane still hasn’t returned from his nightly mission, which is a small mercy. Barsad’s having a hard enough time with Blake as it is without Bane hovering over them.

_(Bane hovering gets in the way far more than the average man.)_

“Blake,” Barsad says. Blake continues dozing. “ _Blake._ ”

Blake only opens his eyes to mere slits. “Mmph. Wh—?”

“Eloquent as ever, Blake. Is this why Gotham’s heroes always run along the ‘strong and silent’ vein?”

“Shut up,” Blake grumbles. “Why’d you wake me?”

“I need to fix your splint and check the wound on your stomach. I need you to at least stop rolling around in your sleep whilst I do it.”

“Fine,” Blake huffs, as if he’s doing Barsad a favour by allowing him to bandage him. Barsad resists the urge to snap kick him off the bed. If only because Bane would find out sooner or later and snap kick Barsad off a building.

“This. _This_ is my life now,” he mutters as he splints Blake’s forearm securely. At least it’s a closed fracture - thank God for small mercies. “Chaperone and nursemaid to a fool who thinks a man is defeated because he’s down on the ground. Did you learn nothing at your police academy? Or were your instructors simply that pathetic?”

“Less complaining, more bandaging, Florence Nightingale,” Blake snips. He is becoming peevish as the painkillers are wearing off, Barsad knows. Blake doesn’t deliberately pick fights (although he inadvertently starts many just by speaking thoughtlessly). Still, Barsad makes sure to poke Blake in his bruised ribs as he wraps the sling over Blake’s shoulder.

Blake’s mouth tightens and he glares, but he doesn’t whine again. _Message received,_ the glare says.

Barsad has to grudgingly give him respect for keeping silent against the pain.

Blake also manages to sit still as Barsad lifts his shirt and pulls off the ace bandage to examine the slice across his abdomen. It isn’t too deep; all it will require is a change of bandages.

“Is it going to scar?” Blake asks as Barsad wraps the bandage around his torso, trying simultaneously to peer around Barsad’s head and stay still.

Barsad reins in his smirk and gives Blake his best flat look. “It will be fine. The length of your delicious, rippling abdominals will remain unspoiled by—”

“ _Okay_ , you can shut up now,” Blake says hurriedly.

Barsad gives him a nasty grin. Life may reward him with fewer pleasures nowadays, but tormenting Blake is always a joy.

“Cease your needling, brother,” Bane says, his presence sudden and looming, as he stalks into cave infirmary. He has eyes only for Blake. Similarly, Blake’s gaze zeroes in on Bane the second he appears on the threshold.

Barsad looks back and forth between them then smoothly collects his medical supplies; slips wordlessly out of the infirmary. He is _not_ staying to witness that.

 

\---

 

Barsad escapes to the central chamber and the safety of its torrential waterfall-generated white noise.

He can _still_ hear the argument. Somewhat.

Mainly, he hears the volume of it – the rise and fall of Blake and Bane’s voices - though the words are unintelligible. He casts a quick glance upwards, envying the orphans who are shielded from hearing _any_ of it by fifteen feet of concrete, basalt and hardwood flooring.

The door to the infirmary slides open with a pneumatic hiss and Barsad hears a snippet of _“—not what I was say—”_ before Bane stalks out, door sliding shut behind him again.

Blake will not be pleased at that, Barsad thinks.

Bane thunders up the ramp and comes to stand beside him at the control terminal; Barsad, very carefully, does not turn around. He also does not perform a mental tally of the number of breaths Bane is taking. And he does not conclude that Bane is taking deep, snarling breaths at an elevated 35 breaths per minute.

He _absolutely_ does not edge his chair away, as subtly as he can.

Finally, Bane’s furious breathing evens out and he says, “He insists on going out and patrolling, still.”

Barsad imagines Blake patrolling Gotham’s rooftops and encountering the same assailant, both of them with arms in slings. The mental image of them slapping ineffectually at one another, one-handed, makes him grin.

“This amuses you, brother?”

_Damn._

Barsad slides his chair another few inches away before saying, “I was… thinking of the shot that I took his attacker out with - straight through the shoulder, from the rooftop across the street.”

“That _is_ a good shot,” Bane nods approvingly.

“Tell that to Blake,” Barsad mutters. It sounds ridiculously adolescent, even to his ears, but Barsad doesn’t care. It was a good shot.

“Barsad managing to get a shot through the man’s shoulder was very good,” Bane says instantly, his voice directed away from Barsad, which means he’s talking to—

Barsad puts his hand over his eyes and - this time - resolutely turns around in his chair.

Blake, for his part, seems to be ignoring Bane’s praise of Barsad in favour of glaring at Bane; Barsad notes down ‘failing to pay attention to important details beyond his primary goal’ as another one of Blake’s (many) faults.

“I can't believe you fucking walked out,” Blake says, indignant. “Really mature. Seriously.” His glare – ineffective at the best of times, in Barsad’s opinion – looks particularly pathetic, given his current state.

“Pursuing a logical argument when one’s opponent fails to even utilise logic is pointless,” Bane says, folding his arms across his chest.

“ _Fails to utilise—_ ” Blake spits, before taking a deep breath. He pinches the bridge of his nose with his uninjured hand. “You’re not _listening_ to me. I get that I’m not in fighting condition—”

Barsad snorts. _That_ is an understatement, if he’s ever heard one. Blake glares at him, but a smile creeps involuntarily over his face when he takes in Barsad’s expression. “Shut up, Barsad. And I’m still crapped off with you, Bane,” he adds, looking back at Bane.

Bane had bristled immediately when Blake’s smile had gone to Barsad. Barsad edges his chair away as far as he can get it, caring not a whit for subtlety. Is Blake _trying_ to get him killed?

“You may resume your patrols after you recover,” Bane rumbles now.

“Which will take _more than a month_. And in the meantime, gangbangers and dealers and thieves and pimps will think it’s fucking Easter, Christmas and Thanksgiving rolled into one. Like I was saying _before you stormed out_ , I know I can’t go on patrols. But it’s _important_ for Nightwing to be seen. I was just— venting. Getting it off my chest. I didn’t mean I was actually going to go out. I’m not a moron— and _shut up, Barsad._ ” That last part is tacked on incredibly quickly.

Barsad hadn’t even _said_ anything.

He gives Blake his best innocent face. Blake rolls his eyes at him. Barsad gives him the Longbowman Salute. Blake merely looks confused. Now it’s Barsad’s turn to roll his eyes – Blake is hopelessly American.

Bane has been quiet; head bowed, arms crossed, and ignoring them both. Now, he raises his head slowly as he says, “Nightwing must be seen.”

Blake looks back at him. “… Yeah. That’s what I’ve been saying.”

“ _Nightwing_ must be seen. But it need not necessarily be you, John,” Bane continues. He turns and looks at Barsad.

Barsad blinks.

Blake turns as well. “Oh my God,” he says, grin spreading across his face.

 

\---

 

“No.”

“Barsad—”

“No.”

“You didn’t even know what I was going to say that time! But you have to admit, it's pretty convenient that we’re the same size—”

“A fact which pains me daily, I assure you.”

“Come on, you’ll enjoy it. What’s not to enjoy? You’ll be lurking in filthy alleys, mingling with criminals, fighting for your life—”

Barsad squints at Blake. “You _are_ trying to convince me to wear your ridiculous costume, are you not?”

Blake waves his uninjured hand airily. “Don’t even try to put up that front with me, you _enjoy_ fighting for your life.”

“If I were to take your place, I would not be fighting for my life because _I am not incompetent_.” Barsad injects as much withering scorn into his voice as possible. If he were a blowtorch, Barsad is confident Blake would have been burned to a crisp.

“… Yeah, nice try. No way you’re getting me off-track by picking a fight,” Blake grins at him, regrettably burn-free. “Seriously, it’s been an hour now. You can’t refuse forever—”

“So you say.”

“—I’m going to have to appeal to your better nature next.”

“ _I have no better nature._ ”

“Brother—” Bane begins, but Blake barrels over him, with his scoffed, “Sure, tell that to the birds who you leave bread crumbs for every morning.”

“—bread crumbs, _truly_?” Bane finishes, surprised.

“Bread crumbs,” Blake confirms, nodding. “Every morning, after breakfast.”

Barsad glowers at them both. “Cease this conversation,” he snaps, “or I shall not be responsible for my actions.”

“When have you ever _been_ responsible for your actions?” Blake asks, genuinely curious.

Barsad misses the occupation of Gotham, when he’d gotten to carry his rifle everywhere. Blake makes him leave it in the weapons locker when in the Cave and Bane’s Significant Look ensures Barsad obeys.

“Brother,” Bane says now, calmly.

It is the only thing he says but it has the weight of centuries of tradition behind it. Barsad can feel it pressing on him; bearing down on his shoulders.

He’d taken an oath. He’d made the climb and breathed the incense of the blue flower. He’d sworn eternal allegiance to the leader of the League of Shadows and that leader is Bane, whose will is iron and whose word is law.

Barsad stares at his leader despondently.

 

\---

 

“You will need to shave, brother. Nightwing does not have a beard.”

 _There is no end to the indignity,_ Barsad thinks darkly.


	2. Chapter 2

 

DAY ONE

Blake picks up the commlink earpiece and holds it out to him. Barsad looks at it sourly.

Blake had been _insistent_ on monitoring Barsad using Wayne Tech surveillance systems - patched into Gotham’s CCTV network - as well as remaining in contact with Barsad via a commlink. Barsad hadn't been able to believe Blake's gall – trying to _monitor_ him, like he was an errant child who required constant supervision, lest he try to eat the sand in the sandpit. It had been yet another point of contention between him and Blake, settled only when Bane had levelled another implacable stare at Barsad.

_(Barsad curses the soul of Ra’s al Ghul for ever finding him and bringing him into the League)_

But Bane is not paying attention right now – too busy making last minute adjustments to the surveillance software – so Barsad makes one last-ditch attempt at avoiding Blake’s leash.

“I don’t require monitoring.”

“Yeah, you do,” Blake says firmly.

“I have been babysitting you the entire time you’ve been performing this ridiculous superhero farce. I know what this job entails.”

Blake squints at him. “Uh-uh. You _really don’t_. You shot that thief and you didn’t even think to call 911. This—” he waves the earpiece, “—is to make sure you don’t try to curb stomp some guy while you’re on patrol.”

Barsad scowls. To avoid taking the earpiece, he begins fussing with the Kevlar bracers of the suit. “I have realised something about you, Blake,” he says after a moment.

“What’s that?”

“You clearly have a subconscious desire to be beaten. The colour scheme of this outfit is _black and blue_. Have you informed my brother of your sadomasochistic tendencies?”

“That was very clever of you,” Blake says serenely, reaching out to adjust Barsad’s collar with his good hand. “How long have you been saving that one up?”

“About one week,” Barsad admits, swatting Blake’s hand away. It’s _irritating_ when Blake doesn’t glare and fight back.

“Well, I think the uniform suits you,” Blake says now, his voice too-innocent. “The blue in the emblem really brings out the colour of your eyes.” Barsad eyes him suspiciously.

“What was that?” Bane asks as he descends from the ramp, evidently done with his adjustments.

“I was saying Barsad looks good in the Nightwing outfit,” Blake replies in the same innocent tone.

Bane’s only reply to that is, “ _Really,_ ” but Barsad’s mother had not raised him to be a fool. He jumps away from Blake immediately; gets a table in between himself and Bane for good measure. He glowers at Blake, who smiles blithely and holds out the earpiece.

Barsad absolutely _does not_ sulk as he accepts it.

He takes it back. He _hates_ it when Blake fights back.

 

\---

 

Surprisingly, the night has been going well.

Thus far, Barsad has incapacitated four mid-level mob enforcers, one attempted arsonist ( _“No, no, dude, you don’t understand, I need the insurance money to get a pony for my daughter!”_ ), and interrupted two carjackers.

Currently, he is dealing with his third would-be carjacker.

Barsad’s fist meets flesh with a satisfying thump. His opponent lets out a whuff of air but doesn’t speak otherwise.

This is good. This is _much_ better than providing sniper cover for Blake as he does his nightly patrols. Loath as Barsad is to admit it, Blake was right about that. In fact, Barsad is starting to think _he’d_ be much better at—

“ _What are you doing?_ ” Blake squawks into the earpiece, at such a high volume that the sound distorts; Barsad nearly yanks it out of his ear.

Instead he says calmly, still punching methodically, “The job you _press-ganged_ me into doing. What else?”

“Your _job_ is to prevent or stop crime, Barsad. The guy’s unconscious - why’re you still beating him up? I mean, what the _fuck—_ ”

Barsad grits his teeth. Blake (and Bane) had forced him into this; badgered him into the suit and foisted the damnable commlink upon him. And now he has the nerve to be complaining about how Barsad is doing the job that he -  _Blake_  - ought to be doing. Supremely irritated, Barsad drops the carjacker to the ground and stands with arms akimbo, speaking at full volume to an invisible Blake, “Do not tell me how to do this job—”

“I damn well _will_ tell you how to do this job. Nightwing’s supposed to be a symbol of hope for Gotham, not a thug—”

“—in fact, perhaps I should to be the one telling you how to do this job seeing as I am still injury-free, whereas—”

“Brother,” Bane says, over Blake’s outraged noise; the commlink creates bizarre distortions in his voice.

“Yes?”

“Are the victims not standing behind you still?”

Barsad turns around. The owners of the vehicle – a young woman and her elderly father, completely unharmed – are staring at him with terrified gratitude.

“Um,” he says.

“ _Nightwing,_ ” the girl breathes, “Oh, thank—”

Barsad recoils. “ _Don’t_ thank me,” he cuts in hurriedly. He runs for the nearest alley; wall jumps up to the fire escape.

“I _told_ you all those hero types were crazy,” he hears the old man say, as he scales the levels. “That one was talking to himself.”

 

\--- 

 

DAY TWO

Barsad crouches on the balcony of a second floor apartment in the Burnley district.

The lights are off in the apartment behind him and, in any case, his quarry is arriving below the balcony, not in the apartment. He watches as the two hunched figures – a dealer and his supplier, heading out for a meeting – look nervously around before heading toward the silver Oldsmobile parked illegally on the street—

Barsad drops like a stone. Lands on the hood of the car with a satisfying wham of metal.

“ _Shit_ , it’s _Nightwing—_ ”

The dealer and his supplier both jerk guns out of their jackets. The dealer – looking for the entire world like a slack-jawed sixteen year old – fumbles with his, clearly unused to handling guns. But the supplier is more experienced. He stands with his feet apart, his gun hand braced by his other hand.

Barsad targets him first.

He gets into the man's personal space, twists his wrist, and knees him in the gut. There’s an agonised yell and the gun goes spiralling away into the gutter. At the yell, the dealer swings his gun around with a small shriek, but Barsad grabs him by the forearm; yanks him forward and jerks the gun out of his loose grip.

Both men stare at him in horror as he stands there, gun in hand.

Barsad looks down at the gun. Jennings 9mm.

His skin instantly starts crawling. Even though he’s wearing gloves made of Kevlar and titanium-dipped fibres, he’s possessed by the overwhelming urge to go bathe the hand in undiluted hydrogen peroxide.

“ _What is this?_ ” he demands, outraged, waving the Jennings – he will not deign to call it a _gun_ – around. Both men cringe away from it as best as they can whilst being immobilised by fear. “I have always known Americans were classless, but this— _this_ is beyond the pale. Do you have no respect for the art of shooting at all? If you are going to bring a gun for protection, bring one that isn’t liable to jam or turn into a _hand grenade_ whilst you are firing it. You have Ruger, you have Colt in this country, why would you—”

“Oh my _God._  Tell me I’m having auditory hallucinations and you’re not actually giving some two-bit dealers recommendations on better guns to buy,” Blake says wearily over the comm.

“You’re having auditory hallucinations,” Barsad says promptly. The dealer and his supplier exchange uncertain glances with one another. Barsad’s tempted to make things more confusing for them, and tell them to stop sampling their own product.

Blake sighs, loud into the earpiece. “Asshole. Stop it. Tie them up and leave them somewhere public.”

“Your sexual proclivities are so very disturbing, Blake.”

“ _Stop talking to me out loud._ ”

 

\---

  
DAY EIGHT

Barsad leaves early today, though the sun is only just beginning to set.

He’d rather risk being exposed in daylight as not-really-Nightwing than stay another minute in the Cave as Blake – in some horrific form of reverse sublimation – channels his restlessness into devising increasingly blatant strategies aimed at seducing Bane away from his work.

The most horrifying part of it all is that Bane _is encouraging it_.

(“It gives him something to do, brother.”

“Some _thing_ or some _one_ to do?” Barsad had asked, as sarcastically as he dared.

Bane had simply looked at Barsad placidly until Blake slunk up behind him, wrapping his good arm around Bane’s waist.

“I need help with the bath,” he breathed. After a beat he added, “Because of my arm.”

Aghast, Barsad had said, “You are not even _trying_ now. This is because I made fun of your sexual proclivities, isn’t it?”

Blake – the little shit – had laughed in his face.)

The only upside of Blake’s shamelessness is that he and Bane are too busy ( _oh God_ ) to continue monitoring Barsad. Nevertheless, Barsad shudders at the cost and prays there will be someone he can bludgeon soon.

His prayers are quickly answered down the road from the Wayne Foundation orphanage, where he sees a cluster of children standing about one man. Barsad is instantly suspicious. No man surrounded by children is ever trustworthy. That is why Barsad also does not trust department store Santas, balloon animal artists, or the local ice cream truck driver.

There is a line of trees near the fence surrounding the orphanage. Barsad clambers up one easily and leaps from branch to branch until he’s directly above the group.

“—have a sample. It’s on me. But it’ll be our secret, yeah?” The man says as he holds out a dime bag toward one of the children and it is _not_ a bag of sweets.

That will be quite enough.

Barsad drops from the trees, feet hitting the man squarely in the back and slamming him into the ground.

It’s over in less than ten seconds, but Barsad keeps beating him for the _sheer pleasure_ of it. He needs to expend his aggression somehow.

He only stops when his useless opponent stops moving. Then he shovels the body into the bushes, ending it with a sharp kick. The man groans. Ha. _Blake can take his morals and shove it,_ Barsad thinks. That it sounds incredibly American does not occur to him. He turns away, satisfied.

The children are still standing there. Barsad stares at them. The children stare back.

What the hell would Blake say after one of these acts?

“Do not do drugs,” he says finally.

“Or what?” one of the impudent whelps retorts.

“Or I will find out, and I will beat you within an inch of your life, as I did that dealer,” Barsad snaps, pointing at the misshapen lump in the bushes.

The children have no response to that, and he stalks off as the children cluster around the former-dealer-now-meat-lump. He thinks he sees one of them start poking the lump with a stick.

But one of brats has peeled off from the group and is following Barsad, in what it probably thinks is a stealthy manner. Barsad walks a yard away before he suddenly stops and spins around, forcing the child to come to a startled halt.

They stare at one another from a distance of about five feet.

The child is a boy, dark haired and blue eyed. He looks at Barsad with no fear and a healthy dose of suspicion. Barsad almost likes him; anyone who regards Blake (or whom they believe to be Blake) with suspicion is a person with sense. Then:

“You’re not John,” the boy says, voice accusatory.

Barsad stares.

A _child_ knows Blake’s identity? Does the man know _nothing_ about discretion and secrecy? By the soul of Ra’s al Ghul and all that’s unholy, Blake has somehow managed to be worse than his predecessor at concealing his identity.

He considers arguing that he _is_ Blake. Then he decides that would be stupid. The child obviously knows already and Barsad is going to have _words_ with Blake about this. The words may have to be accompanied by fists. “No, I am not Blake.”

“What did you do to him?” Angry, suspicious.

“I did nothing to Blake,” Barsad snaps. “He is more than capable of doing mischief to himself.”

“What happened?”

“He got in the way of a man’s fist,” Barsad says. “And then a blackjack, and then a switchblade.”

The boy looks baffled.

Barsad sighs. “What is your name, whelp?”

“Tim. And I’m not a whelp.”

Barsad can concede when he’s wrong. “Very well. You are an insolent brat, Tim.”

“And you’re a rude asshole,” Tim-the-brat retorts.

“Thank you.”

Tim looks confused. “So you’re… taking over... for John while he’s injured? _You?_ ”

“You are not the only one who cannot believe it,” Barsad mutters joylessly.

Silence.

Barsad waits a little longer but, when no response appears to be forthcoming, begins to turn away.

And then:

“Can I be your sidekick?”

“… What?”

Tim makes a face at him. “Did I stutter?”

 _Impudent little—_ “ _No,_ you wretched child, you did not, and you may not be my sidekick.”

Tim huffs. “Well, I guess you’re kind of like John in _that_ way.”

Sourly, Barsad thinks he couldn’t wish to be anything less.

 

\---

 

“Don’t you know a secret identity must be _secret_?” Barsad demands as he storms into Blake’s room.

Blake yelps and falls over— falls _off_ , rather. Falls off Bane’s lap. His naked lap.

There’s ten seconds of horrible, black silence – black because Barsad has closed eyes or maybe he’s gone blind— oh God, he hopes he’s gone blind—

“Don’t you know knocking would’ve saved us all from being traumatised like this?” Blake shoots back.

“I am not traumatised,” Bane says pleasantly.

Barsad opens an eye. He still has his vision. How very disappointing.

Blake, red faced and scowling, has the sheets pulled up to his chin. Bane sits calmly on the bed with the comforter draped carelessly across his lap. Barsad knows it is only there because Blake had thrown it across him; Bane would not care otherwise.

Looking anywhere but at the people he is conversing with, Barsad says, “A child knows your identity.” His voice must not be scathing enough, or Blake has developed some sort of emotional callus in response to Barsad’s reprimands because all he says is:

“ _Really?_ Oh— _Oh._ You mean Tim.”

“A _child_ , Blake,” Barsad repeats, trying to emphasise the gravity of the situation.

Blake isn’t grasping it. “Yeah, he can be like that.” He nods consolingly.

Barsad wonders if the manual for operating the tumbler is still in the Cave. He’ll need all 462 pages of it to beat Blake with.

Blake grins suddenly. “Don’t worry about Tim. He’s always been that sharp. But he's a good kid. He came _this_ close—” Blake holds up his thumb and index finger less than an inch apart, “—to solving one of my cases once, after I left a file laying around. Back when I was still with the GPD, of course.”

“That says less about his investigative abilities and more about your lack of them.”

“Shut up, Barsad.” It’s said with exasperated affection and rolled eyes.

Barsad squints at Blake, perplexed.


End file.
